


Hat Trick

by BelovedofApollo



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boys In Love, Domestic Fluff, Dumb Hockey Boys, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, Romance, Taking Applications for That
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29283171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedofApollo/pseuds/BelovedofApollo
Summary: Achilles Pelides, prized NHL center and so gifted with the puck it's almost supernatural, seems dead set on letting his anger demolish his promising career. He's picked fistfights with American royalty, crashed cars worth more than his college tuition, and now his only opportunity to play hockey hinges on whether or not he can get his act together. Which he has, in spades... except all he wants to do nowadays is put a ring on nerd trapped in a hot guy's body, Patroclus. Wasting his talent on a farm team to the tune of several million dollars (only some of it his), it'll take Swedish twins, unscrupulous politicians, and sweet love to help Achilles reach his potential. Or else everyone will be ruined with him. For Achilles, that's definitely the more fun option.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 73





	1. Can I Call You Baby?

In between the watercress salad and fish course, as Governor Atreidae Sr. trotted out his brand new granddaughter for lobbyists and supporters to coo over, his chief of staff and longtime fixer snuck away from her seat next to some angel investor who’d been trying to slip her his business card. Thetis wove in between the elegantly appointed tables, set with lead crystal and antique porcelain, touching the shoulders of high dollar donors and smiling at their wives as she passed. She’d planned this fundraiser. She knew who sat where, and how heavy their wallets were. In a campaign year, each of them was worth twelve courses and cigars in the sculpture garden.

When she stepped into the hallway, none of it mattered. The guests, the hobnobbing, modelesque Helen smiling for yet another photo - all of it window dressing. The sounds of the dinner, the clinking silverware, the guests cooing as baby Hermione laughed, it all faded away. Of course she checked the dark corners and nooks for stragglers - this was still her job. It was still her job as she tucked herself away into the library and sat down in an original Philadelphia Hepplewhite wing chair. The exact chair where she had stashed her personal phone.

With her ear trained on the door, Thetis pulled the iPhone from the between the arm and seat cushion, entered her password, and opened YouTube. A few clicks and she was on the live stream for the Ithaca Bluejackets. She looked to the top-right corner of her phone. 9:27 PM. Right on time. 

Thetis took her phone off mute and put on its blue light filter so it wouldn’t compete with the warmth from the library’s Tiffany lamps. She cast a quick look about the room. Teak shelves from Thailand. Leather couches from Italy. A mantle heavy with family photographs: the Governor being sworn in as his wife, Aerie, held the family bible; Helen and Nel on their wedding day in the Cathedral; Aggy holding baby Jenny as Esther sat next to him. All smiling. All perfect. All cheaters and thieves.

“Bastards,” she whispered to the portraits before looking back down at her lap. 9:30 on the dot. 

“Hey folks, we’re gonna get to it,” a disembodied, badly mic'd voice said as the screen went from ‘WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK’ to a blue, nondescript backdrop and card table with a single microphone. “If you could just raise your hand and ask your question when pointed to, that would be great. One question per hand. If you wanna talk to Coach Calchas, he’s with the pool in the locker room. If not, here’s Achilles Pelides to take a few questions.”

Thetis heard a rush of murmurs and clicking as cameras flashed as someone shuffled offscreen, and there he was. Her boy. Her sweet son. The love of her life.

Why wasn’t he wearing a suit? That was Thetis’ first thought as Achilles, two inches tall on her iPhone, sat down to his first press conference as alternate captain. Even in his team’s colors, a horrid blue and orange hoodie, he was a credit to her. Straight nose, square jaw, unyielding frown. Her second thought - she needed to schedule his next visit to a hair stylist. Somewhere in Manhattan, not that barber upstate he liked. His slick-straight hair, usually cut into a J Crew quiff, fell limply over his forehead and around his ears. And his roots were showing. What a disaster.

“All right, you go,” he said boredly around a mouthful of gum, pointing to someone in the audience.

“Stupid boy,” Thetis muttered as Achilles visibly sagged in his seat. He had his eyes on the table instead of on the journalist. “You need to engage them.”

“Mr. Pelides, were you pleased with your performance tonight?” the journo asked.

“I played twenty-one minutes and scored two goals, so, like, yeah, I guess.” He looked up, pointed to someone else. “You go next.”

“What’s your strategy for next week’s game against the Iolcus Stallions?”

“I’m gonna score more goals than them.”

“Can you go into more details?”

“The goalie is hopefully gonna remember he has wrists and block the puck.” His frown deepened to a near sneer. “Also, one question Agenor.”

“I would if you gave better answers, Pelides.”

Thetis pursed her carefully-lined lips and shook her head as Achilles’ answer grew more and more tense. His first game as a captain of any kind in any hockey league and he was _bored_. Sullen. Unappreciative. Sinking into rage by the furrow between his brows. She thought he was about to flip the table when someone with a Minnesota accent asked if he agreed with being sent to the minors instead of being traded to another NHL team.

“What do you think?”

The journalist did not offer what he thought.

Achilles looked ready to go when he pointed to the next (and hopefully last) speaker.

“Hey there - I’m Dionne, from Sweet Sixteen”, a perky, feminine voice chimed sweetly. Either she had just entered the press conference or she had the situational awareness of a table lamp. 

Achilles arched a thick, dark-blonde brow in her direction. “Do you have a question?”

“My readers want to know if there’s a special lady in your life.”

Thetis gasped, her hands snatching up the phone and bringing it within inches of her face. Her eyes widened in terror as confusion crossed Achilles’ face. He tilted his head, narrowed his jade eyes, wrinkled the long and elegant bridge of his Grecian nose.

“What?”

_Oh no._

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

_Oh shit._

“No.”

Achilles pointed to another person in the rota, but this Dionne wasn’t done.

“Do you have any plans for one?” she pressed, her tone pitching flirtatiously. 

_Stop talking, you idiot._

“No.”

Dionne laughed sweetly. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Achilles rolled his eyes, scrubbed both hands over his face before hooking them behind his neck. His glare flattened into a look of sheer boredom.

“Because I’m gay.”

Thetis’ jaw nearly hit her skirt, her nails scraping against her phone cover as her hands turned to fists. Whatever fell out of Achilles’ mouth was drowned out by the text alert that zoomed across her screen.

(9:54 PM) ASSHOLE EX - DO NOT RESPOND

haha bitch!

* * *

‘hey, pick me up after the game? we can hang. but like date hang. not bro hang.’

Alone in the locker room at 10:38 PM, long after all the other players went home to Tinder dates or bars or their weak college town weed, Achilles swiped his thumb down his phone screen. For the tenth time. In a couple minutes. The message he’d sent to Pat at four that afternoon refreshed almost instantly. No response yet. Just read. So at least Pat had seen it. It wasn’t like he completely ignored Achilles’ text. Pat just hadn’t replied yet. Not a big deal. 

Nope.

Not a big deal at all.

“Come on Pat, please,” he muttered under his breath, swiping the message again. No response.

He started tapping his leg so hard his Nike slide was about to go flying across the room. His mom always hated when he bounced his leg, but he couldn’t help it. It was his tic. Something he’d done since he was a kid and had to sit through remedial math and advanced piano. He swiped the message again. Nothing. Just six missed calls from his Mom and a lot of texts: call me, call me now, I swear to God if you don’t call me this instant. Shit like that. So not too different from any other day. He had two texts from his Dad, which was a little weird during the week, since he was a spook and all. Smoothing a hand down his bouncy leg, he opened his Dad’s texts.

(1843) General Pops: Good luck at your game son! Stay with me when you play in D.C., we’ll get burgers at that place you like.

(2157) General Pops: Excellent press conference! Call me when you can. Tell Pat I said hi. Bring him to D.C.! 

“That was one hell of a presser, you little prick. Any worse and I’d rip that ‘A’ off your jersey and give you Little Ajax’s ‘C’ just for the memes you probably inspired. I bet some soundbites might even make it to ESPN radio tomorrow morning. That was the first full pressroom we’ve had in a month.”

Slight nasal accent, definitely upstate New York, but not strong enough to be Rochestor. Achilles looked up to Odysseus, standing in the doorway, looking more like a random fan than an AHL team owner. They were wearing the same hoodie. Coach Calchas always wore a suit to games, made sure to shave too. Odysseus’ five o’clock shadow was more of a midnight scruff ever since his wife moved out. For once, he wasn’t on the phone with Penelope.

“I told you I didn’t want to do it,” Achilles groused as he tucked his phone (without checking it) into the pouch of his sweatshirt. “I don’t need to talk to them. They just need to know my name and come to games. As long as I play good, that’ll happen.”

Odysseus was quick with an answer as he sat down at the opposite locker. 

“Yeah, well if that were true, you’d still be playing for the Minutemen in D.C., but I guess after drinking away your signing bonus, maybe having a sex tape floating around Pornhub and getting arrested for assault, you’re not a number-three draft pick anymore. You’re just the best kid in the minors.”

Achilles felt every joint in his body, his hands coiling into tight fists. What if he punched Odysseus? Right across the face. In his eye even. Crushed his socket to little splinters and blinded him. Or maybe in the throat, just to watch him choke on the floor. 

There was nothing in Odysseus’ expression that indicated he knew the bent of Achilles’ thoughts, the danger he was in. Just the same, smug, shitty little grin he always had. Odysseus had wisdom but no goddamn instinct sometimes.

“Calm down kid,” Odysseus chuckled as Achilles’s breath shortened and whistled through his clenched teeth. “The ‘A’ is yours no matter how many hearts you break or how many times you come out of the closet. Just remember if talent was the most important thing, you wouldn’t be here.”

Oh yeah. He was definitely gonna beat the everloving piss out of him. His hoodie’s pocket buzzed. Probably his Mom.

“Fuck you, old man,” Achilles muttered as he took out his phone to ignore his mom for the millionth time.

No.

Not his Mom.

_Pat._

(2243) Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: Hey! Sorry to just be getting back to this, had to pick Mirta up in Syracuse after my shift. Sat in traffic for at least an extra thirty. If you’re still inside, I’m out front by the fountain. I’m down to bro hang or date hang, it just can’t be too sexy. You’ll have to hold your gear in your lap. Mirta’s conked out in the back seat and her shit is everywhere.

(2244) Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: I’m off for the next four days if you already went home. We can go for pancakes and powerade tomorrow morning. 😘

“Okay gotta go, bye Odysseus,” Achilles said quickly, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. He never brought his stick or pads home, so he didn’t have much. Didn’t need much for a slumber party anyways. “Seeya tomorrow at nine.”

“Practice is at seven!” Odysseus called after him as Achilles sidestepped the team’s logo (an anchor) in the middle of the locker room’s floor. 

“Ten then!” he shouted back as he darted through the tacky blue and orange hallways of H. Galley Stadium - the Minutemen’s maroon and grey was subtle by comparison. H. Galley wasn’t a dump, but it was barely bigger than his summer practice rink. Only two stories tall and a couple of hot dog stands. Maybe a pretzel cart if he remembered it right. No luxury booths or escalators. Certainly no secret entrances for foreign heads of state or elevators named after astronauts and presidents. Yet he’d never been so happy for how Pollypocket tiny it was. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes before he nearly knocked the glass entry doors off their bronze hinges.

Because there was Pat, looking a little bleached and grey under the cool, fluorescent street lights, but still so golden as he leaned against his mid-size sedan. Heartstopping really, with his slightly grown-out, regulation buzzcut, his broad chest and broader shoulders. Achilles’ eyes skimmed the knife edge of his jaw and the slight bump in his nose from where he’d gotten in a middle school fist fight. He reminded Achilles of the kind of men he saw in old black and white war photos. Serious but not grim. So grownup but somehow boyish. Rugged but tender. His dark eyes were lit up by his phone as he tapped the screen. Maybe he was scrolling through his texts as obsessively as Achilles had been.

“Hey!” Achilles shouted as he shuffled over, his slides flying off. January had been pretty dry but it was well below thirty, so his socks did shit to keep his feet from freezing. He felt like he could fly as Pat looked up and smiled so big it wrinkled his nose, the corners of his dark eyes. “Thanks for the ride!”

With his sandals gone and Pat in his heavy-duty duck boots, Achilles had to go up onto the balls of his feet to kiss his boyfriend… friend who was a boy? Exclusive but not defined hookup with warm, tingly feelings? Did a label really matter as Pat slid his huge hands around Achilles waist and kissed him breathless with Aquaphor-soft lips? Or when angled his head to the right because Achilles always pressed his nose to the left?

He tasted like too-sweet Dunkin’ lattes and smelled like a car filter that needed to be changed. Achilles was addicted in seconds and burrowed into Pat’s downy puffer, licking past his lips for more. Those big hands smoothed up and down Achilles’ back in steady strokes, over his sweatshirt because he forgot his coat inside, up and down, up and down. Achilles felt like an overgrown house cat or a prized thoroughbred as they made out, but too quickly Pat tipped his head back and broke the seal of their lips with wet pop.

“Thanks for not driving yourself home. You could’ve called a Lyft though. I didn’t want you to wait so long,” Pat whispered into the corner of his mouth. Achilles felt himself being lifted onto his tippy toes as Pat arched his spine.

“Never, I’ll never call them, I’ll always call you,” Achilles laughed over Pat’s indignant _‘where are your shoes’_. “And I had to stay late to talk to some reporters. Did okay. Or real bad, not sure.”

“Well grab your shoes and let’s go, it’s fucking freezing out here. And where’s your coat?”

Achilles rubbed his nose sweetly along Pat’s cheek and untangled himself from their embrace.

“Locker room maybe? Lemme in the car and it won’t even matter,” he replied as he doubled back for his slides. He heard the satisfying thud of a car door opening and closing as Pat got in, and he wasn’t ashamed to rush to the passenger to let himself in. It was, as Pat said, fucking freezing.

“Did Mirta bring home garbage?” Achilles asked quietly as he peeked in the backseat, which couldn’t be seen under all of Mirta’s stuff - pillows, blankets, just so many bags. Mirta, already petite, had wedged herself in the middle seat between a suitcase and several plastic trash bags. She was dead to the world, her face smashed against the flattest pillow Achilles had ever seen.

“It’s all her dirty laundry,” Pat whispered as he shifted into drive. “So it’s every last item of clothing she owns, plus all of her friends’ and half the gymnastics team. Buckle up, babe.”

Achilles’s mouth tipped into a pleased, catlike grin as he made a show of buckling his seatbelt. Pat’s eyes were firmly on the road ahead, sometimes flicking between the rear and side view mirrors, so he probably had no idea he dropped the nickname. But Achilles would be riding the high from that ‘babe’ until morning.

This close to midnight, with the weather so cold and college still out, the streets of Ithaca were mostly empty, or at least the neighborhoods they were driving through were. Pat tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel to some song in his head as he drove past one-stories and duplexes. Achilles relaxed in his seat, soaking up the heat as he greedily traced Pat’s lovely if serious profile.

“I could put on some music,” Pat said, reaching blindly across the center console. Achilles knew he was reaching for his phone, but that didn’t stop him from sliding his palm into Pat’s and twining their fingers together. He slid his thumb over along smooth skin and calloused knuckles. Pat smiled that nose wrinkly smile and squeezed his hand back. “Are you putting the moves on me, Mr. Pelides?”

“We are not listening to any more eighties pop or sad indie music, I can’t take it,” a gravelly voice chimed from the back on a yawn. Achilles’ head snapped around on a swivel as he sat straight up. Mirta was awake, sleep rumpled, but awake. She blinked the same owlishly big eyes as Pat, but hazel to his coffee, before blowing a breath through her pouty lips (also like Pat’s). 

“Pat, did you book a dick appointment while I was asleep?”

“Watch your language,” Pat snapped as he pulled the car into the parking lot of a small but wellkept set of townhomes. “And no. You’ve met Achilles before.”

“I know, that’s why I asked. Hey, Lee.” She always greeted him so fast. It came out like the name Hailey.

Pat made a noise somewhere between choking and laughing as he parked, which meant he needed his hand back. An unwelcome but necessary development. Achilles was definitely laughing as he got out of the car, offering to take some of Mirta’s stuff, which she declined. She left most of her junk in the car, but at five-foot-nothing, even her gym bag and pillows dwarfed her. Pat was shaking his head as she waddled up the stairs.

“What am I going to do with her?”

His Dad always said the same kind of thing when he was growing up, with the same indulgent tone. 

“You’re a good brother,” Achilles assured Pat with a loud, smacking kiss to his cheek. There was more hand holding, which Pat initiated this time, as they took their time up the steps. Mirta was already in and like a typical teenager, had left the door open, letting out all the heat. If Achilles snuck kisses to any bit of Pat’s bare skin he could, he told himself that his lips were cold and Pat was warm.

Mirta shouted something about taking the bedroom as she stomped up to the second floor, which didn’t register because Pat was kissing him, properly kissing him, right there in the entryway. With the front door closed because Pat didn’t waste money on anything. Achilles rose up to slide his hands into Pat’s close-cropped hair. He could almost feel the curl coming back in as the soft strands slid between his fingers.

“So do we take this upstairs,” he murmured with Pat’s lower lip still between his teeth. “Maybe hop in the shower?”

“Uh, Mirta’s sleeping in the bedroom. We’re on the couch tonight.”

His kiss-drunk mind was slow to catch up, but then it all hit him. Pat texted him no sexy time because he lived in a one-bedroom and his kid sister had snatched it - Pat’s bedroom no less!

“Make her sleep downstairs.”

“I’m not making her sleep on the couch.”

“It’s a pull out, which I wish you would stop do-”

“Do not make a joke about pulling out.”

Achilles alternated between leering and pouting as Pat slipped out of his thick puffer and toed off his winter boots, like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. He felt so put out, but damn Pat filled out his button down flannel and jeans. He followed Pat around the first floor of the townhouse, nagging him playfully as Pat tried to take care of him. He rejected Pat’s offer of sweats and a henley in favor of sleeping naked. Pat handed him a protein shake - he demanded nachos and beer. When Pat insisted on wrapping his wrist, which he tweaked during his last away game, Achilles even found a way to gripe about that. 

“But that means less skin on skin contact.”

“How tragic. Now hold out your hand.”

It was all so sweet and domestic, Achilles wondered as sat at the kitchen table, sipping his lukewarm protein shake in borrowed clothes and watching Pat set up the sleeper sofa. Growing up, wherever he happened to be living - his mother’s fancy apartments, the far-off countries his dad was stationed in - he grew up in a different wing of the house than his parents, with nannies and drivers to make sure he didn’t drift into their lives. Here, where he split the table with Pat’s jump bag, he could hear Mirta banging around upstairs, and was asked to pick which blanket Pat piled the hideabed with - the comforter, not the quilt, please.

“Coming to bed?” Pat asked as he stretched his long arms over his head. A sliver of his golden belly peeked out as his tee rode up.

“Yeah. Of course.”

He came to bed, but didn’t sleep. He watched Pat for a bit, or tried to in the darkness on that lumpy mattress. Or maybe it wasn’t lumpy. One of the first things he bought when he got when we went pro was a thirty-thousand-dollar mattress from Sweden made of horsehair and flax. Now, by comparison, all mattresses were lumpy, but this one was in Pat’s home, and he’d sleep on the floor for that.

Pat’s lashes were dark spikes on his cheeks, his brows thick and straight and just the right amount of groomed. _I take care of myself, but I’m not vain. I have enough room in my heart to take care of you._ That’s what his eyebrows said. They were good eyebrows. Achilles pressed a lingering kiss to them, another to the bridge of his nose, and Pat didn’t even flinch.

“You’re delightful,” he mouthed quietly and turned onto his back. A few minutes on his phone and he’d try to turn in. He felt Pat shift beside him as his phone screen blinked on, the springs squeaking as his long, lean body straightened and relaxed, but nothing else as he scrolled through his unread texts.

(2150) Momma: What was that press conference! 

(2151) Momma: I am not joking, Achilles. Answer your phone.

(2201) Ant-man: How do I make a GIF? I want to make one of you rolling your eyes and saying ‘because I’m gay’.

(2204) Momma: I swear to God I will charter a helicopter to Ithaca and tear down your door if you don’t call me back.

(2212) Swede-Line Group Chat, Big-A: I hate college town bars! Pub trivia should be about sports and movies, not which German philosophers were or were not Nazis!

(2216) Swede-Line Group Chat, Teuce: American beer is so terrible. I’m actually doing well at this pub trivia. I should be too drunk to remember that Martin Heidegger was a Nazi.

(2218) Swede-Line Group Chat, Little-A: Ljuset är tänt, men det är ingen hemma.

(2218) Swede-Line Group Chat, Little-A: crap wrong chat sorry ignore

(2220) Swede-Line Group Chat, Big-A: Who was that about?

(2220) Swede-Line Group Chat, Big-A: Was that about me? 

(2220) Swede-Line Group Chat, Big-A: Rövhatt!

A new notification flashed across his screen.

(0008) A. Atreidae: Cute stunt. Still not trading you. Now get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The American Hockey League (AHL) is the farm league for the National Hockey League (NHL). Rather than create brand new leagues and really world build, I decided to use existing infrastructure for American and Canadian hockey. For hockey fans - hey all - these terms would seem familiar. However, the team names and locations are fictional. Rather than figure out how to incorporate Achilles into the New York Rangers roster, or pick any of its minor league affiliates, it was better to create teams wholecloth. That way, all the baggage would belong to the characters, and not the Boston Bruins or Pittsburgh Penguins. Plus it’s a fun way to hide Easter eggs (tell me if you found any).
> 
> As for anglicizing certain names, I can’t say I’m going to keep it to a minimum. I picked phonetic similarities rather than going with the meaning behind the name - except for Mirta, which is the direct translation of Myrto. Menelaus becomes Nel, Agamemnon becomes Aggy, Aerope becomes Aerie, Iphigenia becomes Jenny. Some names are preserved because they are quick shorthand for their original roles in The Iliad , The Odyssey , or The Song of Achilles .


	2. I Need Somebody Who Can Love Me at My Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patroclus becomes a brand new father, and meets his asshole of a soulmate.

At the last minute, always on-time Pat ran back upstairs to change clothes. He was patting his pockets to check for keys, wallet, phone, wallet again, when he saw himself in the suit for the first time. It was brand new - he’d only picked it up that morning from the tailor. Her excitement hit Pat like a speeding truck as she showed him all the alterations - the navy blue wool was cut slim to fit his athletic frame, with a single-breasted coat for his trim waist, and flat front pants long enough for his legs since they went on for days. It was endearing, being flirted with by an octogenarian. This was a young, modern man’s suit, she assured him. But when he saw himself in the half bath mirror, he didn’t see a young, fit man in a modern suit.

He saw his father. He saw the man who came to breakfast in a suit, who flaunted his mistresses in a suit, who broke his mother’s heart in his suit.

So now he was ten minutes late to family court, and he couldn’t find a parking space, so he’d had to park three blocks away. He was still adjusting the collar of his nicest sweater as he ran down the street towards the courthouse. Penelope Icarius was already there, a pillar of grey herringbone and patent leather as she read the pages of a manila file. Beautiful but firm, she was cut from the same granite as the façade of Corinthian columns.

“I’m late, I know, I’m sorry,” Pat called out to her as he ran up the steps to meet her.

“You’re late, I know, apology accepted,” she replied without looking up from her folder. Pat smoothed down his trousers, fixed the hem of his sweater. “I thought you’d be wearing a suit?”

“It- the tailor wasn’t done.”

“Of course they weren’t.” 

Penelope looked at him then, staring down the line of her hawkish nose at his crewneck and chinos. He could almost feel her black eyes as they landed on his feet. 

“Sneakers?”

“Uh, I was running late.”

“Don’t make puns.”

Pat felt adrift as Penelope pursed her nude, glossy mouth and went back to flipping through her file. Presumably the file was Mirta’s, but he did want to peek around her manicured hands. He’d only been alone with her twice before, and their visits had followed the same pattern. Pat would sit quietly while Penelope reviewed documents, only speaking when spoken to. Yes ma’am. No ma’am. Every other time he’d visited her office, he’d been with her intern, Melanie, and even she made him feel small. 

God, if he couldn’t handle a twenty-year-old.

“Should we, I don’t know, go inside?” Pat asked as he slid his hands in his khakis. Midway through July, but he still felt cold. “Maybe wait for the mediator?”

“Before you arrived, Patroclus,” she began crisply and tucked the file between her arm and side. “I spoke with Mrs. Menotiades on the phone, and I think we should wait outside. You’ll want to see this.”

“Just Pat - not Patroclus. Anything else feels like a bad joke.”

She considered him then, in her flat, still way. Pat felt like he was being judged by a marble bust.

“Well then, just Pat, there is no way anyone is going before the mediator yet. If everything goes to plan, we won’t have to.” She tipped her chin towards something behind his shoulder. “Here comes the cavalry now.”

He turned around to see what she had indicated. It did not take long. Among the neat promenade of craftsmen homes, green Sycamore trees and economy cars, the enormous Range Rover with its tinted windows and blacked out rims was out of place as best. Worst case, the ostentatious SUV belonged to his father. The Range Rover popped its hazards and parallel parked easily - illegally - directly in front of the courthouse.

No doubt the worst case.

“Are you ready?” Penelope asked in a tone he almost confused for gentle. He breathed in, out, let the air cool his throat and lungs as the engine geared down. The SUV’s driver hopped out, a hulking bruiser in a black suit, aviators and single Bluetooth earpiece. 

“Ithaca doesn’t see many bodyguards, does it?” he asked as the guard subtly scanned the neighborhood for whatever threats Ithaca could be hiding. Presumably rival Ivy Leaguers. Penelope stepped closer to him as the driver moved around the vehicle.

“Pat,” Penelope muttered and wrapped her hand around his elbow. Her skin was hot through his sweater, but her long, coiling fingers tethered him to the ground when he felt like floating away. “Pat, you can’t be too much older than my own son. Are you sure you’re-”

“You couldn’t make it two hours!” a female voice he’d only heard in phone calls shrieked. “Our last two fucking hours, and you made them miserable! Do you fucking wonder why I never want to see you again?!”

In his darkest moments, Pat imagined meeting his father again. What he would say, what he would do. In every self-loathing scenario, he did nothing at all, like ice waiting to thaw against an unending winter. Theodore Menotiades had probably moved on from the son he abandoned, but Pat was stuck living out his trauma forever. He worried when he saw his father again, there’d be nothing but stillness and sadness. He’d keep his heart shuttered in his chest, and cower before Theodore Menotiades, the cold, grey spike that broke it.

The reality was pure, frenetic mayhem.

“Do not raise your voice to me, young lady - no George, I did not just call you a young lady.”

“Please Theo, let’s just get inside.”

“Polina, I swear to God, don’t indulge her. No George, I did not call you a Pollyanna!”

The scene was motion and emotion as it unfolded. His sister - it had to be his sister -was out of the car and flinging designer suitcases around. A bottle blonde in Chanel tweed and travel jewelry was at her side, a font of nervous energy as she shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other. Pat was surprised there wasn’t a dog in it. Exiting the front shotgun seat was his father, shouting into his cell phone.

And he was wearing a suit.

“I don’t care how much it costs George, I will not be outbid by a limp-wristed San Francisco vegan. I want the steer and ten straws of stag semen, in that order, and you better let me know who I’m bidding against.”

“Theo, please, can’t that wait?” the fake blonde, Polina, begged. She clutched her purse tight as a lifejacket.

He felt Penelope step closer to him, her curly hair brushing against his cheek as she leaned close.

“What on Earth is he talking about?” she whispered. Her breath was hot against his ear lobe.

“He’s placing bids at an auction so he can breed cows and deer,” he mumbled back. His sister, he knew her name was Mirta, was shouting at Polina, who could only be her mother. Theo was still telling George to pay top dollar for some deer spunk. The bodyguard was still playing at being a bodyguard, scanning for threats that didn’t exist.

“This is as good as it gets with him, Mom!" Mirta yelled. "I’m going to college in New York, where I get to live with strangers. And I cannot wait for that.”

Mirta stopped tossing her things, of which there was no end, out of the trunk and to the curb. She stood still, teary and shaky, then turned to him. 

“Pat?” she said lowly, and all eyes swung to him. Polina stopped fiddling with her bag, his father shut up about the cow, and for the first time ever, he looked his little sister in the eye. He gave her an awkward, stunted little wave, which he instantly felt embarrassed by. 

It must’ve been enough for Mirta, because she darted up the steps to the courthouse and barreled right into his chest. He let out a little 'oof' as she snapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into his sternum. The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin. She was just a baby.

His hands shook as he pressed them to her slender back.

“I’ve got you Mirta,” he breathed to the top of her head. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

“You’ll be okay? On your own, I mean.”

“Pat, I’ve been alone for sixteen years. You can go to work tonight.”

He smiled as Mirta wandered around his townhome like she’d never seen one, which she probably hadn’t. He sat at his table, bent over as he finished tying his work boots.

“It’s twelve hours,” he told her as he straightened up. “I won’t be done until tomorrow morning.”

“I’m okay, really. I’ll probably eat dinner and unpack.” She was opening and closing windows, probably for fun. The wood creaked with the summer humidity. “Can I put some stuff in the hallway closet?”

“Take the bedroom closet. I keep everything in the dresser so it’s practically empty.”

They fell into a long silence as he checked his jump bag, but he anticipated the summer being full of awkward silences and misunderstandings. Mirta had always been an idea, someone who existed in birthday cards and on Facebook. The sister he was never meant to know.

Now he was her parent.

_‘Let me be clear. This case has already been decided. Nothing here is disputable. Patro… Pat Menotiades is now the temporary custodian of Mirta Menotiades. It is either this, or she proceeds with her petition for emancipation. She has full control of her trust fund, so I assure you, she is capable - financially - of emancipating herself. Failing that, she only needs to make it through one year of legal battles, and then she will be rid of you, Mr. and Mrs. Menotiades. Whether as her guardian ad litem or her private attorney, I fully intend to see this process through. So Mirta is staying with Pat until she goes to school this fall, and you both are going home.’_

“You can text me whenever you want, but I can only come home if it’s an emergency,” he told her as he checked his jump bag - he needed more Narcan and his eyewash solution was about to expire. 

“So your job,” Mirta began tentatively as she joined him at the kitchen table. Her hands hovered over the open red duffle. “You save people?”

Pat looked up from sorting through his single-use ointments. He took a moment to answer.

“On the best days, I don’t do anything.”

“They pay you to do nothing?”

“Ah, no, I’m definitely paid to be a paramedic, but I like slow days because it means fewer people need emergency services. I do get to save people on occasion though. Those are good days too.”

MIrta, without asking, picked up a packet of Celox granules. He’d let it slide this time, but it was clear she’d grown up without rules or structure. “What does this do?”

“It stops some wounds from bleeding, although I try not to use it - I prefer gauze and bandages.”

“Maybe don’t use it tonight.” She slowly handed the packet back. Her reticence to release the little pack had him searching her face. They didn’t look too much alike, but they reflected one another. Same dark brown hair, same big eyes, but she was fair where he was tan, and so very small. Small and looking a little scared.

“I’ll be okay, I promise,” he assured her. “I took this job because I didn’t want to be a cop or firefighter, and I’m only covering this shift. Then I have the rest of the week off to hang out with you.”

“Well, hopefully you have a slow night, Pat.”

“Believe me, nothing’s going to-”

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, which he pulled out. A text notification flashed across his lock screen.

“Is everything alright?” Mirta questioned. She must’ve seen his face.

“I’m not sure,” he confessed as he opened his messages.

(4:01 PM) Captain Nestor: You need to come in, ASAP. All hands on deck. 

“So much for an easy night,” he sighed. Mirta slid her little hand into his.

“Be safe? For me?”

He gripped her fingers tightly.

“For you? Anytime.”

* * *

The accident, a single-vehicle crash with no fatalities, hadn’t taken place in town - the address was halfway between Ithaca and a state park. Captain Nestor sent another text telling him to leave immediately, but observe all traffic laws. Not that he needed the reminder - he drove five under the speed limit the entire hour it took to get there. An additional text informed him that the ambulance was already en route, so he needed to take his station’s Ford Explorer, the one they used for outreach events.

Driving through the rolling hills made green and verdant by summer, his thoughts wandered to his sister and if she would like to take a road trip someday. His letters to her over the years never made it above the Mason-Dixon line. She’d grown up with hot, humid summers and mild winters - she once wrote to him about her first time seeing snow, a whole two inches that lasted a week before melting into muddy slush. He tried to describe the harshness of a blizzard in one Christmas card, the fear of losing power or skidding on ice, but she only expressed delight at seeing that much snow. 

He wondered if she was prepared for the reality of all of it.

The hour on the road passed easily. He checked in with Captain Nestor once - no lights needed, and his current ETA was acceptable. If he wasn’t on his way to a car crash, the trip would be pleasant - he passed gambrel barns, split rail fences for fat cows and black faced sheep, the occasional roadside stand selling raw honey and strawberry preserves. No traffic though. He was pretty sure he was the only one on the road. Even on a weekday, that was odd - it was summertime near a state park, and he was approaching a car crash. He should’ve been caught in a gridlock traffic jam with rubberneckers. But the road was deserted - something felt off, an unnamable emotion that made his skin prickle and his mouth dry out.

The feeling got worse when he finally saw flashing blue and red lights. Fire trucks and squad cars blocked the two lane highway at both ends, so he waited for a patrol officer to wave his vehicle through. There were already ambulances on scene, not just from Ithaca. No one had reported any injuries that could warrant this kind of response, just a car crash. Not that there was such a thing as ‘just’ a car crash, but Pat counted at least six squad cars and three fire engines, and he hadn’t even seen skid marks.

Pat’s stomach clenched with the sinking fear that maybe this wasn’t a normal car crash. As he deftly navigated the Explorer past emergency personnel, Pat’s brain filled in the blank with every situation that warranted a four-station response without a fatality. Chemical spills, terrorism, biohazard. Maybe the car had caught fire. Maybe it wasn’t a single-car accident at all.

Something was off though. Pat muttered ‘what the hell’ under his breath as he pulled up to the ambulance. The doors were open, and there was a patient in the back, but he could tell from the black uniform that it was a cop. On the curb sat two more cops, both holding cold compresses to their faces. To the side of the ambulance a fireman, stripped of his gear to the waist, dabbed blood from his nose.

What kind of accident injures everyone but the driver?

Pat shifted the SUV into park, slung his stethoscope around his neck and grabbed his jump bag. His team had the cops and firemen well handled, so he went to find Nestor. This was easy, because everyone was, all around, doing nothing. The injured police didn’t appear to be too injured - they were trading creative swears about the guy who punched them, and the fireman was scowling under his own volition. This seemed to be the standard for the personnel on the scene. Lots of standing around and complaining. Pat wove his way between cops and firefighters, piecing overheard conversations about what had happened. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it. A Bentley, then a Beamer, or maybe a Benz careened into a ditch, and its indestructible driver had taken down anyone who had tried to touch him. But by that logic, why shut down the highway?

“Captain Nestor,” he greeted respectfully as he came upon his station’s captain, who was also Ithaca’s incident commander. He was in quiet conference with Fire Chief Idomeneus. And the Ithaca Chief of Police, who had a name. An important one. Pat had no idea what it was though, and wasn't about to guess. 

“Ah, Mr. Menotiades, thanks for joining us. You know the chiefs.” He’d only met Chief Idomeneus once, and that was at some benefit years ago. So no, he didn’t know them.

“Hello sirs.” Smooth save. “I’m a little confused as to why you personally texted me, Captain Nestor. Especially when there’s already an ambulance here. Would you please debrief me?”

The three men, all grey-haired and well-seasoned, exchanged pained looks that deepened the wrinkles around their mouths and eyes.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Pat,” Chief Idomeneus, a transplant from Boston, said carefully. He always spoke slowly, carefully, and his non-rhotic accent was that much more pronounced for it. 

“Why not, sir?”

The Police Chief cleared his throat. 

“Son, you’re not here to treat anyone, necessarily,” he announced almost snidely. Pat had to refrain from rolling his eyes at the word ‘son’. “We’re just not taking any chances with appearances here.”

“But there was an accident, yes?” he asked Nestor.

“Yes, but we can’t go near the scene. It’s complicated,” he answered.

“What’s complicated about it?”

“Our victim made a phone call, and now we can’t go near him,” the Police Chief supplied before Nestor could answer. Nestor looked put out at being interrupted. The rivalry between cops and firefighters was alive and well. “We’re just waiting for support to arrive, if you will.”

Pat bristled at the Police Chief’s answer - there were almost thirty people on the scene. What support could they possibly be waiting for? 

“Is the victim injured?” He addressed this to Nestor directly.

“He is, but-” the Police Chief interrupted again.

“We don’t have the luxury of waiting for ‘support’ when someone is injured,” Pat snapped. “I presume you called me because, with Machaon out, I’m the ranking paramedic. Where’s the victim?”

Nestor exchanged another indecipherable look with the two chiefs. On any other day, Pat would marvel that the three walking ego trips were getting along, but somewhere a car crash was being ignored.

“Here’s the thing, Pat,” Chief Idomeneus said in that slow, Bostonian drawl. “The guy is just- he’s such a fucking prick.”

“You’re not treating him because you don’t like him? There are no perfect victims!” Pat hissed. “If that is the reason we’re all sitting on our thumbs, we are going to be sued into bankruptcy.”

“Oh God, we are long past that point,” the Police Chief muttered.

“If you want to go and try,” Captain Nestor hesitated and stared at Pat with heavy eyes. “Be my guest. But watch yourself, okay? This guy is real fuckin’ angry. We’re pretty sure he’s not armed, but believe me, he doesn’t need a gun.”

Pat mumbled a quick thank you and arched a brow as the Police Chief (one day he might learn his name) made the sign of the cross. Captain Nestor and Chief Idomeneus shook their heads at him and went back to their conversation as he went to find his mysterious patient. Through the sea of black and white squad cars and red fire trucks, the chartreuse tow truck was easy enough to find. That and there was someone in the ditch behind it shouting his head off.

“If you touch my fucking car I’m gonna rip your goddamn head off!”

“Sir, I just need to-”

“What did I say about touching my fucking car?!”

Pat’s steps slowed as he came up to the tow truck - the driver stood next to it, scribbling something onto a clipboard. His lip was bleeding and his right eye was nearly swollen shut.

“I’m putting in my two weeks and moving back to Idaho,” he muttered.

It occurred to Pat, cataloguing everyone’s injuries, from the cops, to the firefighter and now the tow driver, that maybe he did need some support. This guy could be high on PCP or meth, and Pat had no backup. He glanced over his shoulder. His crew, the cowards, were either tending to those already injured or filling out paperwork. Every last one of them knew how to triage the scene. There was no reason to be filling out paperwork or icing some cops' booboos.

He processed the scene in small pieces. The car wasn’t a Bentley, Beamer or Benz. It was a Rolls Royce Phantom in classic white. He hadn’t seen one in years, not since his grandfather died, but he recognized the shape and hood ornament. Honestly, it looked mostly okay. While it rolled downhill, it had successfully thread the needle between two trees. From what he could tell, it must’ve stopped when it rolled on top of a boulder - the entire front end was off the ground. The only real damage he could see was to the driver’s window. The glass had shattered, but from the inside out, littering the glass in tempered pebbles.

Then he saw what could only be the driver.

He was easily the most attractive man Pat had ever seen, and college towns were full of cute guys. He was tall and blonde, pushing six-foot if not exceeding it. And he was fucking shredded - muscular, but not a tree trunk. He only wore a pair of jeans, so Pat had no choice but to look at the long, lean lines of his arms and waist stretching beneath his warm skin. Pat worked out, but exercise looked like this guy’s job. He had no body fat, at least not anywhere Pat saw.

“I swear to fucking God, if you don’t get me out of this shithole town, I’m going to rip you a new asshole so large, constipation won’t be a problem ever again!” the striking guy shouted into his cell phone, which he held inches from his mouth instead of to his ear. Pat felt his libido slam on the brakes before kicking into reverse. He was getting real sick of rich assholes making weird phone calls in public. “I’m not kidding Phoenix, get me the hell out of here!”

He turned his beautiful back to Pat and continued screaming nonsense insults to Phoenix over the phone. Pat walked down the hill, careful of his steps as he assessed the drive for injuries - he was standing up straight and had no trouble putting together whole sentences. That probably ruled out a severe head injury.

“Phoenix, I can’t take one more day of these upstate shitheads. They talk through their fucking noses.”

“Sir, do you need help?” Pat broached carefully, padding over, his hand fisted tightly around the handle to his jump bag.

“Phoenix, I am going to slam your hand in a car door the next time I see you!”

“Sir,” Pat pronounced a little louder. “Do you need help?” The prick continued to rage against Phoenix through the cell’s speaker.

“For fuck’s sake, Phoenix, how hard is it to get a trade?! You’re as worthless as the dick on a shithouse rat!”

“Sir!” Pat finally shouted. “I am asking you, do you need help?!”

The other man spun on his heel, his expression wild and teeth bared in a feral snarl. “Get your ass away from me before I-” 

It was like someone hit the guy’s off switch. He went still and silent in a way that didn’t mesh with the violent, rampaging asshole who beat up cops. His ridiculously perfect chest lifted up and down as he panted, but other than that, he was eerily still. Up close, he was even better looking, the perfectly symmetrical mix of square-jawed masculinity and full-lipped prettiness. His blonde hair was artfully cut and highlighted, and his eyes were fixed on Pat’s face, blown but for a thin band of green.

He may not have been concussed, but he was probably a little bit high.

“Sir,” Pat asked again, quieter this time. “Are you injured?”

The asshole, now considerably calmer, looked surprised by the question. Without comment however, he held up the hand not holding his cell phone, arm straight and palm up. Pat heard Phoenix on the other line, but the speaker was too quiet for him to make out individual words. His hand was practically mummified in black cotton. That explained the missing t-shirt.

“Okay. I’m gonna take a look, alright?” Pat questioned and the asshole nodded. Pat took the final few steps towards him with more confidence than he felt. The guy was still now, but Pat had no idea if it was all a ploy, or what he had in his system. But when he asked to unwrap it, the asshole only held his hand out further, and didn’t raise a fuss as Pat unwrapped the shirt.

“Do you have a name,” he asked gently, unwrapping the shirt from the asshole’s knuckles. If he had a name, Pat could stop calling him the asshole in his mind.

“Um, Achilles.”

_Achilles._

It suited him.

“I’m not trying to get you in trouble Achilles, but have you taken any medication? Recreational or prescribed.”

“Yeah, I took molly earlier. I thought I’d trip and go look at some waterfalls.”

That also seemed on point for him.

“Well, Achilles, you need to be honest about that with whoever takes you to the hospital.”

“You’re not taking me?”

Pat glanced up from examining Achilles’ knuckles, which were scraped and swollen, probably from where he coldcocked a bunch of police. Achilles was watching him with such focus and intensity, if he hadn’t displayed a taste for brutality, Pat would honestly be flattered.

“You made a phone call earlier - someone else will be coming to get you. I just need to make sure you’re okay. It’s my understanding you haven’t been seen by medical personnel yet.”

“Yeah, I called my dad then my mom. They’re getting me a new car. But you could still come, right? Like, I’m injured.”

Pat laughed at his earnestness and was rewarded with a smile from Achilles. He cradled Achilles hand in his own, turning his wrist and checking his face for referred pain. There was nothing but an answering grin.

“Sorry Achilles, but the most I can give you is a Band-Aid and some aspirin. Your doctor will go over your plan of care. But if you could give me your ID, that would make writing this report a lot easier.”

Achilles pouted, _pouted_ , as Pat released his hand, but he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Pat decided against the aspirin, really any pain meds, as he couldn’t remember what interacted with MDMA. He pulled out his phone so he could snap a photo of the driver’s license Achilles held out with all the pride of a cat presenting a dead bird.

A driver’s license that had long since expired.

“Achilles, this is like six years out of date.”

“Huh. Cool, never noticed.”

Suddenly Pat heard a commotion by the tow, so he looked over - the driver was talking to a man in a black suit and angrily gesticulating to his split lip. Two bodyguards in one day after eighteen years without seeing one. Pat had to move quickly - Achilles had crashed a car, injured everyone in his path, and only calmed down for Pat. For some reason. Pat wasn’t going to examine that too closely. 

“Do you live in Ithaca?” Achilles nodded. Pat reached into his jump bag for a pen, and wrote his number on the back of a packet of gauze. He shoved it into Achilles’s fist. “If you need a ride, and you can’t get one, just call me. You’re high right now. You don’t have a license. Any time there’s not someone else to drive you, that means you need a ride. So call me. Day or night. Doesn’t matter. I’ll come and pick you up.”

“Pat!” It was Captain Nestor calling him. Time to go.

“See you, Achilles.”

“Bye Pat. It was nice meeting you.”

* * *

Five a.m. rolled around soon enough - the rest of Pat’s shift was blissful compared to the beginning. An easy ride back to Ithaca, not a single call, and Captain Nestor forbade him from writing any kind of paperwork for the crash. He spent most of his night texting Mirta and napping off leftover adrenaline from dealing with a human tornado. Ten hours later and he had almost processed it - some rich kid crashed his car and called his parents, who threatened the mayor or something. He’d never gotten to do it, but he knew it was in his dad’s playbook.

Pat’s crew didn’t bother saying goodbye as he tucked out the building - they knew when they were in deep shit, and leaving him alone with a potential psychopath put them up a certain creek without a paddle. Even if Achilles hadn’t decked him, they were still in trouble.

Achilles… he wasn’t sure what to think of him. He was handsome, but his rage was something Pat couldn’t quite reconcile, not that he had truly witnessed it. He’d seen Achilles shouting on the phone, and he’d seen the all the injuries, but talking to him? In the six words they’d exchanged, Achilles had seemed normal. Easily pleased. Like a kid.

“Just my luck, I’m attracted to a nutbar,” Pat muttered to himself as he reached into his back pocket - his phone had buzzed. Probably Mirta asking when he’d be home. “Unknown number?”

(5:07 AM) UNKNOWN: hey pick me up? couldn’t get a ride. actually dad sent me a lincoln but my license is expired. plus i would never drive a lincoln omg.

(5:08 AM) UNKNOWN: and maybe you would let me take you to breakfast?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place the summer before Mirta's classes start, and before Achilles' first season as a Bluejacket (if you're confused to the timeline).
> 
> For the record, I have nothing against upstate New York or its accents. My whole family is from New England - imagine what we sound like. Not good. Tompkins County Courthouse has an absolutely beautiful exterior and I recommend googling pictures of it. I do not recommend doing anything that would end you up in family court. 
> 
> Why did I name Patroclus’ dad Theodore? Because I preserved Pat’s last name, Menotiades, and having a character name Menoetius Menotiades is really pushing it. So I did a bit of research and went with Theodore. It’s Greek in origin and means ‘gift from God’, which is something Menoetius would probably name himself. 
> 
> Achilles is a major asshole here. Violence is not cute or warranted, ever. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.
> 
> Name Key:
> 
> Nel: Menelaus  
> Aggy: Agamemnon  
> Aerie: Aerope  
> Jenny: Iphigenia  
> Dionne: Diomede  
> Melanie: Melantho  
> Polina: Polymele  
> Theodore: Menoetius


	3. All I Know is Love, For You it's Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working with your ex is hell. Luckily, Achilles works with Pat's ex, so it's more like purgatory.

Achilles’ next game was at home after four weeks on the road. Four weeks of texting Pat from the bus, calling him as he drove Mirta back to Syracuse, and laying thirst traps on Instagram. Achilles was particularly proud of the just-out-of-the-shower selfie he took in Duluth, Minnesota. That post got over forty thousand likes, and a DM from Pat about licking the water off his v-line. Pat’s Insta was always way more tame. The closest Achilles ever got to a thirst trap was Pat modeling a new pair of jeans that made his ass look like dessert. 

Like all 90’s kids, Achilles had cyberstalked Pat in the early stages of their relationship. Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Linkedin - if Pat had an account, Achilles followed it. At one point he thought he had Pat’s torso-pictures-only Grindr. Then he got Pat naked for the first time.

He was never happy to be so wrong. Pat’s muscles were leaner, longer, and he had this tasty line of hair trailing south from his belly button. Achilles spent that whole night personally apologizing to Pat’s chest with his tongue. But when he’d first scrolled through Pat’s socials, he was worried that Pat was, well, fucking boring. Take his Instagram. He posted videos from his hikes, boomerangs of his first aid kit with written tips, pictures of his obnoxiously healthy diet. His Linkedin was polished and professional, his Snapchat was private, and only three people regularly commented on his Facebook posts.

Yeah, pretty fucking boring. Achilles posted photos of midnight clubbing in Miami. Champagne fights in private jets. Hot spring escapades with naked runway models named Jax or Lars. And just so many underwear selfies. Pat posted pics of his volunteer work, maybe the occasional latte if he was feeling frisky. Achilles worried he was one of those put-together gays who paid his taxes on time and never slept in on Saturdays. 

Pat paid his taxes on time, but he could be tempted to stay in bed on Saturday mornings. Especially if he got really tired Friday night. And he wasn’t boring, just responsible. Maybe he didn’t do ecstasy or go BASE jumping, but he was still fun. He loved action movies, slow dancing in the living room and above all, listening. He could bring Achilles down from any ledge. Except one. There was one ledge they just didn’t go near.

Game days started early. Put on a suit, show up for pictures if you were lucky, interviews if you weren’t. Teucer and Aias Johansson (the big Ajax at 6’6”) were the unlucky ones this time, answering dumb questions from some reporter for the local newspaper. Yes they were twins. Yes Aias was taller. No, they didn’t have different mothers. That’s not how twins worked. Maybe they had different fathers, who knew.

Even if he royally screwed up his last press release, he’d rather be with them, or mugging for the cameras with Aias Andersson (the little Ajax at 6’5”). Okay maybe not with Little Ajax - he’d let down his man bun and was affecting poses from Buffalo Bill’s ‘Goodbye Horses’ dance number. Four weeks was a long time to be away from home and it showed. Everyone, from the players to the driver, had gone straight from the bus to the stadium. Achilles suspected that if Odysseus couldn’t go home, none of them were allowed to either.

So there Achilles sat, in the Bluejackets’ locker room, with twenty, antsy, wound-up men who hadn’t seen their beds or families in a month. Next to him, the goalie - an Olympic silver medalist from Russia who did not like Achilles at all - was on the phone with what Achilles assumed to be his wife. Achilles was happy enough to ignore him, tapping his foot to a quick rhythm as he slouched in front of his locker. Thetis would be happy - he was wearing a suit, a Brioni or Boglioli or some other ‘B’ designer. He didn’t care. It was expensive and he hated it and he just wanted to run to Pat’s apartment. Achilles dug through his gym bag for his phone. He’d called Pat earlier, telling him he could skip this game, but he wanted to talk to his… boyfriend.

Yes - he could call Pat his boyfriend in the safety of his own thoughts. Even if he couldn’t say it out loud. He quickly found the right text thread. Pat’s texts, even the ones with almost slutty pics of his abs, were careful and gentle. He used grammar. In texts! Achilles started at an eleven and always brought it to a fifteen, and he wasn’t about to stop. Even if the Russian runner-up next to him was trying to sneak a peek at his phone. Real subtle. Achilles tilted his phone away and began typing. 

pat

hey pat

what’s 34+35?

Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: Um… 69?

what a wonderful idea! what time?

personally i want to lie on my back, let my head hang over the side of the bed

Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: Oh my God.

really choke on your dick

just cuddle me after

Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: Big spoon or little spoon?

baby i don’t care

i am so touch starved i want to brush against the furniture like a cat

Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: I am in for some kind of night, aren’t I?

Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: You know, if I was at the stadium right now, we could be making out in the bathroom. Like teenagers skipping class.

later tonight, okay? let’s give the neighbors something to talk about

i don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow

also i missed you, and not just for sex

Cutie-Pie-Pat💖💖💖: I missed you too. So much.

Achilles’ heel stopped, as did his heart and breath. He smiled at his phone screen like Charlie with his golden ticket, then pressed it to his chest. The screen was cold but he felt Pat’s message warm his heart all the way through to the back of his rib cage. He closed his eyes for a few seconds at the sensation, reveling shamelessly in it. Pat missed him too. So much. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the harsh fluorescents as looked down at his feet. Which were now toe-to-toe with a pair of familiar sneakers. Rust red slip-ons, way too small to belong to a man. They looked like doll shoes compared to his.

“If you’re done with your phone, I need your sample.”

Oh no. She was here. The ledge Pat couldn’t talk him down from. One of the three people who commented on all of Pat’s Facebook posts. Achilles' smile fell, his expression flat and lips thin as his eyes moved up from tiny feet to thin legs and round hips. He took in the fashionable athleisure, the stethoscope, the olive skin and black hair piled into a messy bun. He shyly met carefully-lined, almond shaped eyes that narrowed in obvious disdain. Much as he wanted to be staring down anyone else, literally anyone, he was stuck with his mortal enemy. 

Holding a urine specimen bottle out in front of her like it was a grenade, Briseis Kaya (or Pissy Brissy as Achilles privately called her) looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.

“Hey Bri,” he cracked, pressing the phone tighter to his chest. 

“It’s Nurse Kaya, or even Miss, and we need to do a drug test before you change into your uniform. Take off your coat and empty your pockets.”

Achilles bristled at her tone, which was so icy it could sink the Titanic.

“Is anyone else getting tested?” he snapped back, clenching his teeth to keep from saying something he’d really regret.

“Anyone who failed every preseason drug test but is - somehow - still on the starting roster has to take one,” Briseis said airily as she arched one of her thick brows. “That’s just you, Achilles. Everyone else is monthly. Now, coat and pockets. I’ll be by the men's room.” Her sneakers barely squeaked as she turned in the direction of the bathroom. Achilles knew ‘by’ the men’s room meant ‘in’ the men’s room. 

He felt helpless as she walked away. God, he just- he wished she wasn’t so pretty. That she didn't have a tight waist. That the wrong parts of her petite frame jiggled when she walked. He hated that she was above her good looks, above all the guys on the team that asked her out. But most of all, he hated that she was Pat’s ex. Hated that he had to work with her. Home games meant Nurse Briseis Kaya, contracted through the season with the AHL. Pat had been up front about her, and their continued friendship, from his third date with Achilles. Achilles had never been brave enough to ask more.

“She looks almost as good walking away, yeah? I don’t know how someone so cold can still do that. Not my taste, but I get it.”

Achilles' attention snapped to the Swedish accent to his right. Aias Andersson (Little Ajax) stood next to him, hands in his pockets as he watched Briseis walk into the men’s room. His hair was pulled back and his suit coat gone, so he was probably done with his Buffalo Bill routine for the evening. Little Ajax finished watching Briseis and looked down at Achilles. He smiled mildly. His eyes were very blue this close.

“I don’t like her. She doesn’t like me,” Achilles replied with a shrug, though he wasn’t sure what he was replying to.

“Yeah. I figured.” Little Ajax’s accent rolled pleasantly. “Before you got here, she used to hang a lot with the paramedic you’re seeing. They were close.”

Achilles really didn’t want to think about that. Little Ajax saved him from answering.

“You stayed in your room the whole road trip. I don’t think I saw you leave it once.” 

“I usually call him after games,” he answered easily. “If I can, I Skype him. Then I just go to bed or something.”

Little Ajax nodded sagely as if he had been told some deep secret. Maybe he had been and Achilles just didn’t know what it was. 

“Well, do you have plans tonight?” Little Ajax asked. “I’m having a coming-home party tonight, a big blowout. To let off steam. Should be a lot of fun.”

“I don’t know,” Achilles responded. “I’d say yes, but I had plans tonight.”

“With the paramedic? Bring him,” Little Ajax countered. “I’ve only seen him. I would like to meet him.”

“I'm not sure.” He looked down at his phone. The cracked screen was locked. He looked back up - Little Ajax’s expression was curious, but still kind. “I know how you guys like to party,” Achilles continued. “I’m worried if I go, I’ll be tempted to party like that too.”

“Because you don’t want to fail your next piss test?”

“Not that.” Here, Achilles hesitated. “I don’t want to disappoint my boyfriend.” 

Boyfriend. He’d said it out loud.

Little Ajax let out a little ‘oh’ and rubbed the hair on his chin.

“What if we didn’t party too hard tonight? Just beer and mixers? You could bring the boyfriend, and not be tempted. Two birds in the bush, one stone in the hand. Or however it goes.” He held out his hand. “Here, give me your phone. I’ll ask your boyfriend for you.”

Shrugging, Achilles typed in his password and handed the phone over. He knew Pat would say no, but he didn’t want to be rude to one of his only friends here. Little Ajax nodded once and carefully took the phone. His too-blue eyes flickered over the screen. Suddenly his brows were high on his forehead. 

“Um, I would invite your boyfriend. But I think you have plans tonight,” he quipped as he handed the phone back without typing. 

“Huh?” Achilles looked at his phone. “Oh yeah. We do.”

“Well, come over tomorrow. We’re having a smaller thing in the evening, just teammates since there isn’t another game for a week. Sounds good?”

Achilles smiled.

“I’ll ask him.”

* * *

“So what’s this about meeting your teammates?”

Letting his eyes flutter shut, Achilles felt the mattress dip and bend as Pat came back from the bathroom. His skin, still warm and damp from his quick shower, smelled so good and felt better than anything. Achilles used touch alone to drape himself along Pat’s side. He rested his cheek against the wide stretch of Pat’s chest and trailed his fingers over the ridge of his hip - skin Achilles had only just finished feasting on. Pat wrapped his huge hand around Achilles thigh and drew it over his own - his other arm braced around Achilles back, anchoring him in place. Earlier, when he’d first seen Pat after so long apart, any skin-on-skin contact had brought him to his knees with need. Now, with all the lights off, Achilles sunk into the comfort of being held by his boyfriend.

“I have no idea,” Achilles rasped. His voice sounded like rocks in a blender. Pat chuckled and kissed his forehead.

“Something about a party? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow then,” Achilles hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most chapters run 4,000-5,000 words, but I’m splitting this one into two. The setup and party just didn’t flow organically. Kaya is the Turkish word for rock, which is Briseis's preferred murder weapon. Aias is the ancient Greek spelling for Ajax, but it sounds like it could be Swedish.
> 
> Name Key:
> 
> Nel: Menelaus  
> Aggy: Agamemnon  
> Aerie: Aerope  
> Jenny: Iphigenia  
> Dionne: Diomede  
> Melanie: Melantho  
> Polina: Polymele  
> Theodore: Menoetius  
> Briseis Kaya: Briseis  
> Aias Andersson: Ajax the Lesser  
> Aias Johansson: Ajax the Greater


	4. It's Different From Anything That I thought I'd Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles waxes philosophical, presents so much exposition, and gets serious for a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter features frank but unflattering descriptions of a seizure. If you have a seizure disorder or are appalled by that sort of thing, feel free to sit this one out.

Achilles planned on sleeping until he had to get ready for Little Ajax’s party. After going straight from scoring a game-winning hat trick to sexing his boyfriend like the world was ending, he needed it. No, deserved it. Of course he deserved it. He was the best. Better than everyone at anything. Instead of sleeping in though, he woke when it was still dark. Blinking past crispy bits of eye crud, Achilles yawned and licked at the sour taste in his mouth. No partying last night, so no booze, yet his mouth tasted like a rotting lemon. He groaned and scrubbed a hand across his face. God, why was he even up?

The early light of dawn filtered faint and fuzzy through the sheer drapes of Pat’s bedroom window. Achilles blearily stared at the woolly glow coming through the glass - he couldn’t really call it sunrise. At most, it was no longer nighttime. On non-game days, he slept until noon. Holy fuck, the sun wasn’t even out! So what had woken him up? Achilles rolled onto his back and arched his entire body into a joint-popping stretch, peering around the vicinity.

Pat took pride in his possessions, so the whole townhouse was frustratingly tidy, his bedroom included. In the dark Achilles made out the dresser with its too-small-for-his-taste flat screen. It was otherwise clear of clutter, besides a small ceramic plate meant for keys and loose change. In the opposite corner he saw the dark outline of an armchair with no laundry. Achilles thought all bedroom chairs stored clean laundry, like expensive, cushioned hampers. To see one not piled with clothing freaked him out, but Pat’s clothes always went straight from the dryer to his drawers. The nerd. Where was he? 

That was it. That’s why he was awake before the birds. Pat was gone. Achilles reached over to Pat’s spot, his hand skimming the empty patch of mattress next to him. He groaned lowly, curling pitifully into Pat’s side of the bed, and rubbed his cheek against his pillow. The orange oil and bergamot from his conditioner lingered strongly in the cotton case. Wherever he’d gone, he was close, though anywhere but in bed was too far.

For long minutes, Achilles waited for Pat to come back, blinking through his exhaustion as he tried not to fall asleep. He’d never felt like this before. He wanted so little of Pat, and so much at the same time. Everything and anything. Not money, Achilles had that, but Pat’s time, his touch, his voice. He wanted to be around him all the time, even as a passive companion. Everyone else he merely endured. At best, he tolerated them in small doses. Pat though? He would gladly lay at Pat’s feet, like a well-fed hunting dog, ignored but happy to be in its owner’s presence. But not right now. Right now, Achilles wanted to generate heat the old fashioned way. Unfortunately, his boyfriend wasn’t coming back to bed, and Achilles couldn’t hear anyone in the bathroom. His paramedic-shaped heating pad must’ve been downstairs.

Achilles thought back to the first time he saw Pat. Thanks to pharmaceutical grade MDMA, most of that day was gone. Thanks to Mommy and Daddy, so was his arrest record. From what Dad told him, he crashed his car and hulked out on several cops. He really needed to send a card. To his parents, not the cops. His lawyer would have a field day if he acknowledged assaulting law enforcement officers. Allegedly assaulting - always say allegedly. 

From the small puzzle pieces of his memory he could assemble, Pat didn’t dazzle him. Not anymore than some other cute and potentially gay guy (already a small pool). He saw a tall man with a nice face, and Achilles’ lizard brain filled in the blanks with getting fucked in the grass. But he very much remembers Pat picking him up from the hospital and the car ride to breakfast.

It did not go well. Pat drove safely and slowly, eyes on the road, library quiet as Achilles tried to woo him with his good looks and wealth. He didn’t even crack a smile, let alone reply to any of Achilles’ casual name drops or lopsided grins. When Achilles tried to salvage the situation with his confidence and charm, Pat’s expression hardened to iron. Achilles wasn’t sure why he was trying to impress someone so unreceptive and thorny. Pat was handsome, but in an ordinary way - like you could meet him in the grocery store. But not Whole Foods. He wasn’t Whole Foods handsome.

Pat cut his hair way too short. The bend high on the left side of his nose hinted at a badly healed break. His teeth, while even, lacked Achilles’ own orthodontia symmetry. And Achilles hated to admit it, but Pat probably stood a few, crucial inches taller than him. Which was entirely unacceptable. Sure, his chin had this adorable dimple, and his crisp, brown chest hair curled over the collar of his t-shirt, but Achilles’ contact list overflowed with hot guys. Catalogue models, Formula 1 drivers, trust fund babies like him.

His number burned a hole in Achilles’ pocket though. _So call me. Day or night. Doesn’t matter. I’ll come and pick you up._ Achilles remembered little of his car crash, but that he never forgot. His whole life, everything was catered to him. Cars, booze, drugs, all one phone call away. But always delivered by some proxy or peon. Even his parents’ well wishes came by text. Pat though, he showed up _in person_ . Not a limo driver, not an Uber, Pat himself. Pat, tired and unshaven, but _there_ , leaning against the hood of his car like James Dean. He said he would come, and he _did._

Clearly he was Achilles’ soulmate. There was no other explanation.

At the diner he somehow dragged Pat to, Achilles did his best to fucking _shine._ He asked Pat questions about his job, and actually listened to his answers. In return, he spoke candidly about wanting to go home to his bungalow in coastal Phthia, Virginia. They talked about their families, their wants and fears. This and this and this. And pancakes. Achilles’ wealth bored Pat, but he seemed to appreciate his candor, and they booked a second date for the very next day. 

Achilles looked around the room again, now cast in lighter shades of grey. The sun was starting to rise. And his boyfriend still wasn’t back. 

“I’m gonna kill him” Achilles groused with no real venom as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He swayed with tiredness and his skin prickled in the cold air. He tried over and over explaining to Pat that Ithaca winters were harsher than DC’s. Therefore he should run his heat higher. Pat won that argument with kisses and a throw blanket. Achilles glared down at his shivering, naked thighs - he had neither kisses or a blanket to soothe his goosebumps. First he’d find a pair of pajamas, then he’d bully Pat back into bed.

Finally getting up, he stumbled over to the dresser, pulled out some warm pj pants and tugged on a sweater that made him look like a sexy fisherman. Not as good as cuddling, but enough to stave off the worst of the cold. Barely. He thumped down the stairs, exhaustion making him graceless and careless. He could hear Pat whispering as he puttered around the kitchen, obviously trying to be quiet.

He was probably doing something important. Achilles mustered enough energy to coordinate his height and bulk so he wasn’t barreling loudly about. Padding nimbly into the kitchen, Achilles glanced at the microwave clock as it blinked 04:29 am. Way too early for… all that skin. 

Pat stood at the counter, his beautiful back turned, in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. Achilles’ eyes traced the broad line of his shoulders, the dimples of his spine curving into his narrow waist and pert, high ass. It was round enough to make a needy bottom feel versatile. Almost. Not really. His legs, god his legs, they were so lean and shapely, but soft enough to grab onto.

He was wearing socks, little white athletic ones that definitely belonged to Achilles. Fucking adorable.

“No, Mirta, you’re not going to South Padre Island, or Cancun,” Pat whispered into his cell. He waited for a response, which took longer than the three seconds movies and television allowed. “I know you miss your friends in Houston, but that’s too far south.” Another lengthy pause. “I might let you go to New York. Please, you’ve been up for sixteen hours studying. Go to bed. We can talk about spring break later.”

Achilles’ heart beat warm and heavy in his chest. He couldn’t imagine phoning his parents so early in the morning, let alone having his call answered. Then again he’d never give his phone number to a stranger with an expired driver’s license. 

Pat finished his conversation with Mirta, one more appeal to sleep and then a hushed goodbye. He didn’t hear his boyfriend tiptoe across the scuffed linoleum over his heavy sigh, so he was all stiff joints and shocked gasps as Achilles pressed his lips to the back of his neck. Pat’s skin was soft and warm against his mouth.

“Good morning, stranger,” Achilles mumbled into his nape as he slid his hands through the crinkle of hair on Pat’s stomach and chest. 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Pat whispered back, turning slowly in his arms. Achilles only got a brief look at his lovely face before Pat was melting into his chest, practically begging to be held up. So he did, banding his arms tightly around his waist as he rocked back to take both their weight. He felt the tight beads of Pat's nipples through his pilfered sweater, the rasp of his scruffy cheek brushing his throat.

“Yeah, you did,” Achilles replied, because he didn’t like to lie, especially to Pat. “But it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

For a moment, Achilles focused on the silvery darkness of the kitchen, savoring the pleasant friction of holding someone and being held in return. This is what he’d wanted since he’d woken up, skin on skin boyfriend time. _Patroclus_ , breathing the same air, his arms loosely knitted around Achilles’ shoulders. He dropped his hands down to Pat’s hips and flexed his fingers in the soft flesh just above his briefs.

“I love your love handles,” Achilles murmured. “Never get rid of these.”

Pat pulled back, his mouth pinched into a playful moue as he glowered at Achilles. 

“And I love that you have abs, dearest,” Pat drawled. “But they’re not exactly a personality trait.”

“Maybe not, but I know my man likes them, so I think I’ll keep up with the crunches and rowing.”

Achilles leaned in and slid his mouth against Pat’s in a kiss too slick and hot for morning breath. Pat let out a soft gasp of delight and kissed him back, tugging a rough groan from deep in Achilles’ chest. He pulled back all too quickly. The tease.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Pat whispered against his mouth. “To sleep, before you get your hopes up.”

“That’s not the only thing up on me, baby.”

They walked up the stairs hand and hand, carefully maneuvering through the darkness, the steps too narrow for two broad men. Once in Pat’s bedroom, they each went through their own little routines. Pat practically jumped into bed, diving beneath already cooled sheets and blankets. Achilles’s face split in a smug little grin - so Pat _was_ cold. Good, maybe Achilles had a chance of winning the thermostat argument yet.

“I didn’t know you were from Houston,” Achilles commented idly as he stripped off the sweater. He was keeping the pajama pants.

“I'm not,” Pat replied. “I grew up in Opus, between Pearland and Angleton, near Dad’s work. He moved to Houston later, the Greater Memorial neighborhood. That’s where he had Mirta.”

Achilles crawled back in bed. He didn’t curl up to or spoon Pat. Being next to him was enough. Initially he wanted to scoff and tell Pat he only recognized ‘Houston’ - the rest of those cities sounded like nonsense. But a different question sat heavy on his tongue. He rolled onto his side, so they were facing each other. It was still too dark to see him clearly, but he felt the weight of Pat’s gaze moving over him.

“And then he kicked you out?” Achilles asked hesitantly. Pat’s answer came quickly, easily. 

“My mom and me, yeah.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

He said it so simply, so plainly, like it didn’t hurt and never had. But as Achilles reached out and stroked his thumb over the shadow of hair on Pat’s jaw, he knew traces of that boy were still there. He felt it in the muscle that jumped behind his ear, the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

“Would you tell me why?” 

“Of course I can,” Pat intoned as he brushed his knuckles against Achilles’ Adam's apple. “Don’t be afraid to ask me questions.”

But he was quiet then, and it was a heavy silence. Achilles didn’t crowd or hurry Pat. He felt too desperate for whatever he was about to say to rush him.

“We didn’t fit into the life he wanted,” Pat finally said. The rich timber of his voice was low and gruff, as if he was holding back. “He was ambitious. He wanted the constant promotions, the car and house in the Loop, to sit in the front row at whatever mega church was trendiest. Mom just wanted to raise her kids in the same small town she grew up in. He said she was simple.” He scoffed bitterly here. Achilles knew how deeply he loved his mother. How deeply he loved in general. 

“Then I came along, and things really went to shit,” Pat continued, his voice hushed. “I wasn’t masculine, I wasn’t proud, I didn’t play sports. I was a pretty small kid. Dad called me sensitive, and I was. Mom never thought that was a bad thing. Then the one time I do something manly, I fuck it up so badly, it’s the final straw.”

Achilles swallowed past the knot filling his throat and crowding his breath.

“What did you do?”

Another burdened moment of silence. Achilles was both grateful and fearful of the darkness. He knew Pat needed the space it provided, but he wanted to fully understand what was being said - to see the subtle language of his brows, his mouth. 

“I got in a fist fight. It was at one of dad’s work parties. I think it was St. Patrick’s Day or Easter, because it was warm but not hot. That doesn’t happen too often in Texas." Pat pressed on, and Achilles listened to his tone as much as his words. Mostly, he sounded tired, but still sure. The pain was there, but it was distant.

"There was this kid, Clyde Amphidamas. He was the son of some guy my dad was trying to impress. He was twice my size. He kept trying to take something I won at a raffle. A stupid pair of dice, but I wouldn’t let him. We fought. He got me good - gave me this.”

Pat wrapped his fingers around Achilles’ wrist, brought his hand up and close. He guided Achilles’ finger to his nose and the little curve there. Achilles traced the pad of his finger over the small bump. To think he ever found it unattractive.

“So I shoved him. He went down like a sack of hammers and cracked his head open on the base of a bird bath. He went into a grand mal seizure. Lost consciousness, turned blue. I see them all the time now, but back then I was terrified. I thought he was dying.” 

He could almost see it. Pat, small and golden brown, standing the victor over his bully, but far from triumphant. He wasn’t made for violence. He wasn't meant to fight.

“When the grownups came to investigate, they didn’t see my black eyes and bloody nose. They just saw Clyde on the ground, choking on his vomit, jaw locked so tight his teeth were cracking, violently convulsing in a pool of his own blood. It had started to coagulate, so it was dark and thick on the deck."

Achilles brought his hand back, for fear he'd throw his arms around Pat. Right now, he knew he needed space, to not be smothered.

"I was ushered away by my mom before I could say anything. In a week we were gone - we moved in with family all the way up in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. I never saw my dad again.”

Pat chuckled then, but it was an ugly sound

“As an adult, I know that my dad had wanted us gone for a long time. That the fight wasn’t the catalyst. My mom was holding him back. I would never be the son he wanted. But then, I thought I’d ruined a business deal or something. That I was a murderer. I cried every night for a year.”

“You’re not a murderer, Pat,” Achilles hissed quickly. “Patroclus, you aren’t.”

If Pat was upset by the sound of his real name, he didn’t let on.

“I know, but ten-year-old me thought he was unlovable. Now I know it’s my father who’s incapable of love.”

“You aren’t unlovable, Pat.” Achilles poured all his honesty into that statement, hoping it carried through the darkness. 

“I’m glad you’re so sure.” There was bitterness and self-loathing in Pat’s tone. How could he not know?

Pressing closer, Achilles tangled their feet together and knocked his forehead gently against Pat’s.

“I know because I love you,” he whispered, rubbing his nose sweetly against Pat’s cheek. He felt no pinch, no sting saying it. He did not like to lie. That’s how he felt. He loved Pat, plain and simple.

Pat’s breath huffed warm and minty across his mouth. Not quite a laugh, but almost. Pat looped his hand around Achilles' neck, knitting them together like magnets.

“I love you too, Achilles.”

It was simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter suffered from way-too-long-itis, so unfortunately, the party had to wait. I really want to write it, if only to include the famous motif of Achilles and Ajax playing dice. It is a very common scene in black figure pottery, but not found anywhere in the epic cycle. I'm just tickled by the idea of two grown men ignoring a war to play board games.
> 
> As for the description of Clyde's seizure - I get to see these in person. When your loved one has a seizure disorder, you grow accustomed to the terrifying look of them. So if Pat sounds cavalier, it's because I'm cavalier. It's routine at this point. Also, head wounds bleed like crazy. Please, be careful.
> 
> This update was slow to come out because Winter Storm Uri has my work schedule fucked. Stay safe kids. It's crazy out there.
> 
> Also, I looked it up, and Phthia is pronounced 'FAI-a'. Neat!


End file.
